


Out of Place

by LadyYateXel



Series: Deep Dish Nine [2]
Category: Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Multi, au meets canon, mundane bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyYateXel/pseuds/LadyYateXel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freak transporter accident switches DS9 and DD9 Garak's places. While Deep Space Nine Garak is locked in Deep Dish Nine Garak's apartment, he investigates his other self through his mundane possessions.</p><p>(Posted between chapters five and six of my long chaptered DD9, but taking place much later than there!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinsnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/gifts).



> A divergent and uncharted idea! Canon meets AU! Sad mundane bullshit ensues!
> 
> Relationship between Julian and Garak is ridiculously close to being established here. This was written for Tinsnip after we exchanged an unreal amount of talk and text about this world and our love for pretty much everything in this.

When the door closes, Garak is left without the reassuring if somewhat awkward and terrified presence of the  _Student_  Bashir and is utterly surrounded by his other world self. Talking to this Bashir had been surreal but sort of sweetly amusing in how familiar it felt, but this home contained what could be a far less appealing sort of surreal: the life of his own  _Human_ double. Despite his species though, the Human Garak has made things quite hospitable for his Cardassian counterpart and everything here feels simultaneously comforting and alien. The air is warm, the light is low, and the colors and shapes are comfortable on Garak's eyes. He’s locked in this other man’s home, which puts him just slightly on edge, but it’s only for an hour or so, and is for his own protection against a world that is not ready for a non-Human Cardassian.

 

The frazzled student version of Doctor Bashir had said, ' _Just make yourself at home until I can get back.'_  This struck Garak as a bold thing to say of someone else's residence, even if that someone else were currently stranded in another universe.

 

 _Presumably_ _stranded_ , he thinks. In truth, Garak has no way of knowing that this Human version of himself wasn't beamed into empty space and quickly exploded, suffocated, or frozen to death. Without sufficiently advanced technology, there’s no way to be sure the man wasn’t zapped out of existence in this world only to cause some sort of very sensitive tear in the fabric of space to pull Cardassian Garak through to fill the hole.

 

 _Imagine Doctor Bashir offering the Human_ my _quarters._ He laughs lightly to himself while he takes in the colors and tones of this person’s home. The Doctor doing something as invasive as offering up someone else’s home is charming because it would be done with the best possible intentions. Perhaps, well-intentioned is exactly how student Bashir saw his own offer. It’s forgivable when it comes from Bashir though, no matter which one he is, and the thought keeps him smiling for a moment or two until he really lets the warm home around him sink in.

 

_Imagine having to live here and exist in this Human's place._

 

This is as terrifying a thought as Bashir making offers on Garak's behalf is an amusing one and he tries to shake it away.  _No, no. Just take in your surroundings and learn. They aren't a prison just yet; they're an opportunity you can use to help yourself survive._

 

If survival is foremost, then the kitchen is a good place to start.

 

His other self is orderly, tidy, and clean and this is very apparent once Garak begins opening doors in this room. There's food – actual, real, non-replicated food! – and a nice variety of it, even if not all of it appeals to his tastes. It's obvious here that this man is human, because there are some foods here that he recognizes as ones Doctor Bashir convinced him to sample, but that he will never touch again.

 

Garak knows this is another time, another world, but the sheer amount of non-replicated food is nearly making him dizzy. There are things that must be fruits and vegetables, eggs, milk, and cheese, and all these things will all be useful if he’s to be here any length of time. It's the strange jug of juice that even  _smells_  as though it is mostly sugar that strikes Garak as odd. He's only been through this man's refrigerator (and admittedly made some assumptions based on his own personality) but this juice already feels out of character.

 

Bread in a box, cans of beans and soups, rattling boxes of 'pasta', more vegetables, boxes and bags of things labeled 'whole', 'organic', and 'natural' line the shelves and cabinets, but among them sits a single box of sugary cereal with some kind of bug-eyed cartoon character on the front of the package. There's an entire shelf full of food from this Garak's Cardassia, and more than a few of them sound familiar, though one item on that shelf is simply labeled 'peanut butter' and doesn't appear to fit in anywhere. Every shelf follows this pattern of sophisticated ingredients accompanied by a single, disgusting, ill-fitting box of junk.

 

Under the sink, a can apparently for disposing of kitchen scraps contains nothing but several wrappers that had once, going by the smell, held chocolate.  _Hmm._  Aside from some kind of syrup in the refrigerator, and despite the other odd food-garbage around, Garak has seen no trace of chocolate here.

 

It’s not that he wants to eat this man’s chocolate – though he could make a case that it’s somehow his own – but he wants to know more about him than that he’s Human and that he’s also friends with this world’s Bashir. What this other man does with his things can only serve to inform.

 

 _According to the other Bashir, this Human man is me. Where would_ _**I** _ _hide chocolate? Perhaps more importantly, why do I bother hiding it when I have all these other sweets and sugar readily available? Maybe it’s particularly expensive chocolate?_

 

This is a silly errand, but it’s not as though he can do anything else to help his own situation, and he  _was_  told to make himself at home.

 

Across the main room by the front door is a small closet, and there are few places Garak can think of that he would rather go as infrequently as possible as a closet. He opens the door but sees nothing that looks like candy immediately.

 

_But they’ll be far in the back, if they’re in here._

 

He wades through several coats – all of them structured and beautifully constructed except for one bafflingly loose-fitting pullover with a hood and a drawstring – but finds nothing in their pockets or tucked behind them. There are more than a few pairs of shoes, but there’sno chocolate hiding in the toes of any of those either.  _Thankfully. At least he has some sense._

 

There’s a broom in here along with some sort of heavy, bulky machine with a long wire and a bag attached that he thinks is a distant ancestor of the cleaning tools he has in his shop. Nothing in here has been thrown in so that it would never have to be seen again, and nothing has been carefully hidden so as to only be found when needed most. Either this man has conquered his closet problem, or he never had one in the first place. He wants to think scathingly that it’s made this Human Garak soft, that missing this sort of trauma has turned him into the kind of man that hides chocolate from himself and drinks sugary juice. Instead, (In spite of himself? Or true to parts of himself he’s been trained to repress?) he’s a bit envious that this man’s life features the location of junk food as a chief concern.

 

_If it’s not in a tiny enclosed space, it’s got to at least be somewhere difficult to get to. High up, usually invisible, or with some kind of obstacle in the way._

 

A quick scan of the apartment gives him the possibilities of book shelves (too conspicuous), light fixtures (would melt chocolate), curtains (too easy to access) and, invisible when you're standing too close to it, a small space just tall enough for a box of chocolate on top of a cabinet above a cooking surface back in the kitchen. Perfect.

 

The chair is awkward to pull over and if there had been heat on the stove he would be risking a fall onto a boiling kettle of water, so he is utterly unsurprised when he finds a box of chocolate tucked up here near the ceiling. More than half of the box is empty. Perhaps Human Garak ought to consider developing a closet problem after all.

 

Satisfied that he and Human Garak have at least a working similarity to each other mentally, he returns the chocolate without sampling a piece. Doctor Bashir’s loaned mythology books seemed to have a fixation on not eating the food from strange lands and he can’t shake the feeling (combined with repeated near-exposures to poisoned meals in his prior profession) that eating here would be unwise until the non-Doctor returns. He heaves the chair back to the table with the others before returning to the main room. He’s a bit sad that his little hunt is over so quickly.

 

_But, if my counterpart is anything like me at all, he’ll have other curiosities to unravel._

 

There’s a soft couch in the main room flanked with a small table and a lamp and there are bookshelves along each wall filled with things that sound familiar, sound intriguing, sound refreshing, sound  _Cardassian._   _There's a_ Human _version of_ _The Never Ending Sacrifice_ _! How?_ There’s a temptation to drop everything and read them, see what differences there are, see how they sound written by humans, see how hard ridges become soft skin and somehow carry the same weight, but he can’t devour the details of this world just yet. Right now, Garak’s best chance for coping is to find out who has (hopefully) taken his place on Deep Space Nine and who he may have to pretend to be while he’s stranded in this basement.

 

There are no photos on these shelves, but there are small items that can only be decorative. A man who decorates a space is comfortable in it. Is this Garak not an exile, but here of his own decision? Or do small pieces of art in his home just mean he is resigned to his fate and making the best of it? Could he even be faking being settled? There’s a small transparent glass lizard on these shelves that reminds Garak fondly of a pet he had many years ago. Or maybe it’s many years in the future.

 

_There’s no smell of any animals here. Unless there are fish in another room, he probably has no pets._

 

Next to one line of bookshelves, Human Garak keeps a desk. It’s easily the messiest surface here, but even describing it as messy is too much. It's not his desk, but Garak is proud of it being tidy regardless.

 

A small tube-like case tucked behind a notebook contains a pair of eyeglasses. Garak sees these so rarely in his world, even on humans, yet here his other self keeps a pair on hand? The distortion when he looks through the lenses isn't too severe and it's possible Human Garak rarely needs them.

 

A quick glance through the paper here reveals mostly bookkeeping, grocery lists, bills addressed to E. Garak, and a few fleeting ideas hastily scribbled on the back of receipts. What any of these scraps say isn’t as amazing to Garak as seeing mundane details of this Human’s life written out in his own hand. The universe has shifted, and maybe time has shifted, but this Garak still speaks the same languages, and every stroke he's made on a note to self about the price of silk is identical to the ones he jots down years in the future and one universe to the left as a man of another species.

 

One slip of a paper on this desk is not in Garak’s handwriting, and it’s pinned under a can of multicolored pens and pencils.

 

 _Sorry about your pen! I’ll get you another one!_ __

_-Julian_

 

_Oh._

 

He opens the desk drawer and sees a green pen tucked away beside a small stack of little notes. There’s nothing significant in what they say – some make no sense without their original context - but they are all in Julian Bashir’s handwriting, doctor or not.

 

_Hope you like this one!_

 

Another:

 

_Thanks for letting me borrow this!_

 

Still another:

 

_Sorry I missed you today. Problem in lab._

_Tell you about it later._

_See you tomorrow!_

 

Suddenly, this all feels more like an elaborate joke than a serious transporter accident.

 

Following up on a theory, Garak slips along the wall, behind a large viewing screen of some sort, along more bookshelves, and through the only open door in the far corner of the apartment. This is a small, clean, bright room. There’s some sunlight coming in through a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling, and there’s a sink in here, along with a real shower that, when he fusses with the knobs, features real running water and nothing sonic at all. This should all feel primitive, and the other Bashir had even apologized for this place lacking fancy futuristic alien amenities, but this feels like luxury when compared to a space station.

 

A razor sitting on the sink reminds him of how alien he is here, no matter how many similarities he shares with this other self.  _Human, indeed. Does the human me wear a beard in addition to wearing glasses?_ The thought alone makes him itch. He sees his own image in the mirror and considers that this must be the first time it’s ever reflected a non-human face. He tries not to wonder how many more times that will happen as he swings the mirror out to reveal the storage space behind it.

 

There’s certainly nothing for the care of scales and ridges here, but that’s not what he’s looking for. Garak doesn’t know the names and brands on these products, he doesn’t even know their functions in some cases, but he knows most of what he looks at is  _nice._ Things in here smell clean, and not like chemicals. There are a sharp scissors that glint in the sunlight and a comb that is free of even a single trapped hair. There are lotions that aren’t greasy, and lids tightly sealed onto jars that aren’t sticky.

 

The bottom shelf is where he finds what he was looking for, the thing that doesn’t fit: a frayed purple toothbrush and an unevenly squeezed tube of toothpaste.

 

Two towels hang from the hooks on the back of the door he came though, but there is another closed door in this room and he can't resist that one. It squeals loudly when Garak opens it and he flinches, freezing in place before scolding himself.

 

_No one knows that you’re here, or that you’re anyone other than the usual occupant. Calm down._

 

Through here is a bedroom, and thanks to another tiny window near the top of the wall he can see that it’s just as clean and well-maintained as everything else, but Garak expects to find one or two things wrong in here as well. A quick glance reveals nothing out of place – not so much as a discarded tunic, a casually dropped pair of shoes, or a stray sock – but he is certain there will be something.

 

He bumps the bed on his way to raid the closets and sits on the edge of it, just to see if it’s tolerable. After all, he may need to sleep here later. It’s not as firm as he’d have wanted it, but it seems more to his tastes than the soft cloud-like beds described in Doctor Bashir’s books. It's more comfortable the longer he's on it.  _If I'm here for any length of time, at least this bed will be a welcome improvement._

 

The bed smells of nothing but generic clean – no soaps or perfumes or shampoos evident on pillows. Not even a particular person scent. There's hardly an indication of one person sleeping here, let alone two.

 

Next to the bed is small table with a lamp, a clock, a small mug, and a book sitting on top. The single drawer in the table contains miscellaneous items that could be anyone's: a few pens, a small notebook with sleep-addled scrawl across it's pages, pills of some sort, matches and some small candles. However, there's also a small but very sharp knife. It's easy to hold, quick to open. Useful. The knife gives him an odd sense of comfort and it's tempting to pocket it, but he replaces it in the drawer. Perhaps this Garak's life is not  _so_  sweet that he has nothing to fear.

 

Garak slides off the bed to continue opening his counterpart’s life, with special focus on his closets. This man’s clothing is of particular interest, especially when he considers their shared profession. The clothes here are in a style a bit more Human – the necklines don't need to make space for ridges, after all – but still something he can appreciate. They like the same colors, the same hems, the same sleeves (almost no short sleeves despite his assumptions that it must at some point be warm here). There’s a full spectrum from casual to formal. Unsurprisingly, every item he finds is well-tailored and carefully cared for. It appears that he and the other Garak even wear roughly the same size, including the few duplicate basic items for times when he’s a taken too many trips atop of that chair in the kitchen. If he had to wear something in here, it wouldn't be completely awful.

 

What’s odd here is that there is _nothing_  odd here. The bedroom contains no small deviation from his Human self’s perfectly crafted living space, no cheap substitutes, no dirty laundry, no lowbrow literature unbecoming of a man with Garak’s tastes, and no single piece of clothing designed for a man taller, thinner, and younger.

 

Perhaps it means that the other Bashir has never been this far? Or, just that they are careful in case –

 

 _In case_ what _? There’s a war on and one of them is a Changeling? In case someone objects to their scandalous same-species infatuation? Someone_ really _tries to break in and kill this benign man who hides his chocolate from himself?  
_

_How often did it look like that knife had been used? This is pathetic, Elim._

 

_And frankly, to be careful of this one room is a little ridiculous, considering the state of all the others._

 

The bedroom has another door that leads back to the main room. This isn’t a large place, but it’s certainly comfortable enough for one person, possibly two. Overall, Human Garak has more space here than Cardassian Garak has in his quarters, which seems like a luxury at first glance, but there’s no need for bookshelves or kitchens on space station with technology several hundred years ahead of a boiling tea kettle and paperbacks. Garak has all the space he needs. Most of the time.

 

The couch is visible from the bedroom door, and if someone sat on the end of the couch, they could almost see someone sleeping in the bed. It’s an odd configuration, but not the misplaced bedroom clue he was looking for. However, it’s from this angle that he can see a bag tucked under the small table beside the couch that is  _perfectly_  out of place.

 

When he crouches down to tug the bag out from under the table, he doesn’t even have to read the identification tag attached (‘ _Julian S. Bashir – If found, please email_[ _bashir007@starfl.med.edu_](mailto:bashir007@starfl.med.edu) ’) to know that it does not belong to his other self. This bag is stiff and artificial feeling, the texture of the strap to carry it is unpleasant, there’s a logo for a first aid seminar on the outside, and each corner is worn to the point of holes. Even though the soft gray color is nice, nothing about the rest of the bag is appealing in any way. Inside are two heavy textbooks  _(‘_ _Medical Ethics in a Multicultural Practice’_  and ‘ _Human Anatomy (12_ _th_ _Edition_ )’), a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee, a few brightly colored cotton t-shirts, and some other things Garak really just hopes are clean.

 

_Would serve you right for going through his things if they weren't._

 

The ethics book has a slip of paper poking from the top. The pages it’s marking discuss cultural sensitivity when dealing with the bodies and personal spaces of patients of differing races and nationalities. The text uses Cardassian Humans (' _Still an odd concept...')_  as an example. There are details here about the significance of hand gestures and the risk of accidentally implying extreme familiarity by using them. It's almost eerie that they align so well. Is this a coincidental mark in this book, or is this world’s Bashir trying to teach himself something about Garak? Doesn't the rest of this place indicate that he very probably already knows all this?

 

_Maybe best not to examine a subject you can physically question later._

 

He returns the book and the bag to their places under the table and pokes through the books and pad of paper sitting on top of it. One book is a travel guide for the  _country (?!)_  of Cardassia, and the other is some sort of narrative picture collection.

 

 _Does Bashir want to visit Cardassia, or is the other me just feeling nostalgic?_  He sighs as he flips through the pages and sees architecture that is achingly like his own home.  _Either way, what a luxury this man has to even be able to consider travel to home, or to have a version of Doctor Bashir who might be planning a trip to go there with him._

 

He can’t decide who owns the books, but the pad of paper definitely belongs to the other him.  It contains nothing but his handwriting, his words, his language, all creating what appears to be a collection of notes written for and about, but never given to, this world’s Bashir.  The jittery student Bashir, who presumably would never even be able to read these words, even if he received them.

 

Some pages are attempts at poems, ( _‘It’s a good thing you’re still a tailor, Human Elim.’)_ and some are the sorts of tiny greetings you might want to secretly tuck into a partner's lunch.  One says ' _I miss you the moment you leave,_ ' another is ' _I thought you would like this_ ,' and another simply says, ' _Thank you_.'

 

None of them are an outright declaration of sadness, but as a collection, the overall picture they paint is a bit lonely.

 

Garak is about to put the pad away and then one of the notes shifts from being for the other Bashir to being a written scolding for his other self. ' _You are the brightest part of my life - well then you shouldn't have moved into a basement, Elim, for goodness sake, go to bed._ '

 

_Nice to see he also talks to himself._

 

There's a knock at the front door, and Garak tenses and shrinks a bit into the couch cushions in response.   _No quick movements, no sounds. The couch here blocks you from view of the door if you get on the floor, you can surprise them and they’ll never know what happened.  But if you’re seen here, if someone knows that anyone but that sad Human is here, there could be -_

 

“Erm, hey, it's me.” Garak exhales.  Student Bashir – who he should probably start thinking of as just 'Julian' if they’re going to end up spending any significant length of time together - is back.  He uses his key to unlock the door (‘ _I’ve given him a key to_ my home _in this world… Perhaps it wasn’t completely out of line to offer me this place after all?’)_ and peers in slowly.  There’s noticeable flinching disappointment on his face when he sees Garak.

 

“Oh, it’s you. I'd sort of hoped it would have... fixed itself by now.”

 

“Afraid not.”   _Smile, be polite.  When he trusts you, you can learn._

 

“Sorry, I don't mean to be rude.”  This Bashir –  _this Julian_  – isn’t quite as beautiful as the one Garak is used to.  He has the potential to be, but he wears his awkward sleep deprivation and poor nutrition like an ill-fitting but well-loved sweater.

 

“Not at all.  I'd like it to ' _fix itself_ ' just as much.”  He nods politely, hoping to be as non-threatening as possible.  This is the ‘brightest part’ of his other self’s life, after all.  “No offense, of course.”

 

Julian steps around the door and kicks his shoes off, cautiously keeping an eye on Garak all the while.  They'd only spent a panicked twenty minutes together before Julian had stashed him down here in order to run to his class and keep up the appearance of everything being normal, and after Garak's self-guided tour of the apartment, he's interested in what kind of man this Bashir is.  That is, if he can get him to relax.

 

Garak continues to smile at him, hoping to put him at ease. “I'm not going to attack you.”

 

Julian averts his gaze and removes his coat.  He hangs it on the door handle of the closet rather than hanging it inside.   _Of course_.  It's a much nicer garment than something Garak would expect from a man who drinks red sugar water and can't manage a tube of toothpaste.  The logical conclusion is that it was a gift.   _'I thought you would like this' the note said._

 

“Sorry,” Julian says, slowly approaching the couch and clutching his bag in front of him.  “You're just a little... frightening.  _Overwhelming._   I meant 'overwhelming'.”

 

Garak shrugs. “I'd be quite content to be both, if you'd like.”

 

This attempt at a friendly joke falls flat and Julian just stares suspiciously in return.  He's clearly used to being comfortable and at home here, and now there's an alien on the sofa and his... whatever Human Garak is to him, is missing. They hold several moments of silence between them before Julian tries to overcome his distress again.

 

“I'd usually be studying right now, but I didn't think I'd be able to with this – you – happening.  So I thought I’d just… come here.  It seems the best place to be, and I thought you might be upset or need help or something.”

 

 _You're worried about_ _ me _ _?_

 

“I don't mean to interfere.  By all means, go about your day.  Anything we do really has no effect on the station, after all.”  This is just as much a reminder to Julian as it is to himself.  It's rather pointless to do anything but learn.

 

“You really think I can do that?” Julian snaps. (‘Oh.  _He’s far more scared about this situation than he looks.’)_ “You think I can just  _sit_  and wait for some magical  _space station_  that may or may not be real to send him back?”

 

Garak raises his eye ridges.  “What  _other_ option do you think we have?”

 

Julian makes his way around the couch and drops his bag in front of the little side table that has his other one tucked underneath it.  This is clearly his usual place to unload his things at the end of the day.  “Isn't there some kind of signal we can send them? Radio? Do you still use radio? Could they pick it up?”

 

“I'm really not the man to be asking about antique Terran radio frequencies.  And I imagine  _your_ Garak isn't either.”

 

Julian slumps into the cushion on the opposite end of the couch. “No, I guess – well, I don't know, honestly.  He knows a lot of things I don't think he should.”

 

Garak smiles. “I think he and I have several things in common.”

 

Julian looks like he's about to laugh and then stops abruptly when he sees Garak's hands. “What are you doing with that?”

 

The pad of un-given notes is still in Garak’s hand. “Oh. My apologies.  I recognized my own handwriting and couldn't resist looking.”

 

Julian bites his lip a little, apparently conflicted about the revelation of Garak's handwriting. “Do you understand what all that says?”

 

“Of course.”  _There's no definitive proof that you don't, so let's be careful here..._ He sets the pad aside gently, careful not to give the impression that he thinks it unimportant.

 

“I have bits and pieces of those papers holding pages in my books, but he's – you're? - the only Cardassian I really know.  I've never had time to translate any of it.”

 

This catches Garak's interest. “He's  _given_  you some of these?”

 

Julian is already pulling a book out of his bag.  He's clearly still worried, but talking is giving him some level of control. “Yes, here. This is the last one.”  He pulls a little yellow square of paper out of another textbook and holds it out.

 

 _Oh, dear._ Garak tries to restrain his reaction when he sees what's written on the note.  Luckily, this Bashir seems to find Garak both too frightening to look at for long, and too interesting to avoid looking at all, and in between cautious eye contact, he misses the pained surprise that Doctor Bashir would have seen instantly.

 

“Oh. I see,” is all Garak can manage at first.  Then, after a moment, because perhaps this note is old news, “When did he give you this?”

 

“Two weeks ago? I was reading here, and he was writing where you're sitting.  I had something in the microwave and asked him for a quick bookmark when it finished.  He gave me this.  I asked what it said when I came back, but he said it was nothing.”

 

Garak looks at the note again. “Surely he didn't say it was ' _nothing'”_

 

Julian gives him a weak smile. “No, I guess he said it was ' _half of the beginning of a very silly idea'_ or something.  I thought it might be sort of a Cardassian ‘once upon a time’.”

 

Somehow, despite that there is a thread of Julian Bashir welcomely woven into every other part of this Human Garak's life, he's stalled short of honestly or transparently giving messages like this one. He is lucky enough to have his Bashir so comfortable in this place that his toothbrush sits in the bathroom, his food in the cupboards, his homework and worn out clothing next to the couch, and yet there is still something keeping Human Garak’s actual feelings confined to a pad of paper?

 

As ridiculous as he finds the entire thing, these aren’t his feelings to be revealing, especially when he can milk this situation for more information.  Currently, the only clues he has to how Julian fits into this man’s life include a bath towel and some sugary cereal.  So he’ll dodge translating the bookmark. For now.

 

“He must be very fond of you to let you do your work here.”

 

Julian looks at the note in Garak’s hand and frowns juuust a little, but plays along.  _He’s not going to be dissuaded, or distracted. Hmm._ “He is. I guess I spend a lot of time here, and he likes it when I do.”

 

“I’m very good friends with my world’s version of you as well.  Though I’ve never had the opportunity to let mine work in my home.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t, would I? Didn’t you say the other me is a doctor on that space station already...?”

 

“Yes. Quite a good one.”

 

“Maybe my Garak will find him a bit more impressive.” There are so many layers of pain to Julian’s voice, even as he tries to laugh, that it’s really quite beautiful.  Not that Garak doesn’t want to ease it immediately.

 

Garak glances at the note again. “I doubt it.”

 

Julian looks at the note, and then makes eye contact with Garak and holds it. They sit in silence, staring, for several seconds. It’s almost to the point of uncomfortable until Julian sighs and looks away, running a hand through his hair. “You sound just like him.”

 

Garak doesn’t know what to say immediately. Luckily, Julian doesn’t seem to think he’s meant to say anything and continues talking.

 

“You look like him, too.  As much as you can, anyway.”

 

 _Say something neutral, let him elaborate on his own._ “I’m having trouble imagining it.”

 

Julian picks up his hands, like he’s about to try to sculpt the differences between Garaks in the air, and then stops, and instead shoves his hand into his pocket.  “Wait, wait, here, I'll show you.”

 

He pulls out something that looks like a very small PADD and Garak watches Julian’s fingers dance over the surface of it.  After a moment or two, Julian seems to find what he was after, there’s a tiny expression of pain on his face, and then he hands the tiny PADD to Garak.  “That’s him.”

 

Why he was expecting a very formal passport photo or some other sterile government image, he doesn’t know, but what he’s presented with is an awkwardly shot photo of Julian and another man who is eerily familiar on a very fancy backdrop. It’s not quite like looking in a mirror, but it is exactly like what it is: looking at a slightly alternate universe. He wrinkles his nose a little. This man’s face looks so naked without ridges and scales, Garak has trouble discerning if he and this other him are the same age.  That Human Garak has the luxury of smiling for cameras while wearing elegant clothing with his Bashir makes Garak a little bitter.

 

 _More neutral. Light._ “I can see how you would think we look similar.”

 

“You have the same eyes,” Julian says. “Just  _look_  at them.”

 

Garak squints at the image, unsure if he can see beyond this man's lack of scales. “I suppose we do. What are you two doing in this?”

 

“It was a date.  He took me to a show.”

 

Garak’s eyes widen. “I see.”

 

‘ _Date’? Does this not mean what I think it does? What is going on here? How is there still any doubt in this relationship that necessitate notes masquerading as meaningless bookmarks when there are_ _dates_ _?_

 

Julian continues, and laughs lightly. “He actually bought and altered pretty much everything I’m wearing there.  He said all the clothes I already had were all wrong for me and more formal event – too short, too old, the wrong colors, all that -- and that he was doing a charitable act for everyone who would have to look at me by replacing them.” He pauses and bites his lip.  Seems to think he’s shared too much.  “Do you do this with the other me?”

 

“We only have lunch.”  _Far less frequently than I’d like._

 

Julian nods like he’s a bit disappointed with that response. “So you’re just friends, then.”

 

 _Meaning you're not?_ “There’s nothing ‘ _just_ ’ about being friends.”

 

The grin Julian gives in response is beyond charming, even if he’s not the man Garak loves spending his lunch hour with. “You really  _are_  another him.”

 

Garak looks at the photo again. Smiling back at him is a man who has no ridges, no scales, and no travel to other worlds, but  _does_  have a Julian Bashir who can  _see._ Does this other man enjoy every interaction he has? Does he value that Julian was comfortable enough to stand with his arm on his shoulder for this photo? Flirting is fun, and Garak thought he was content to do it without it ever being completely returned, but now here with too-thin and slightly wary Julian he is wishing he had reached the kind of familiarity that earns one an extra mangled toothbrush.

 

“He appears to be luckier than I, but overall, yes, it seems so.”

 

Julian smiles, but it’s not the grin from a moment ago, nor is it like the smile in the photo. It’s polite, restrained. “My bookmark says something he doesn’t want me to see, doesn’t it?”

 

Garak blinks in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

 

“If it said something mundane, you’d have just told me up front instead of looking at photos on my phone.  So it doesn’t say, ‘buy tomatoes’ or, ‘This is Julian’s biology book.’ Since he gave it to me, it’s something he doesn’t mind if I somehow  _find time_  to translate, but he’s relying on the fact that I don’t.”

 

 _Oh, you_ are _Bashir, aren’t you? No wonder the other me likes you so much._   “That sounds like it could be accurate.”

 

“Why won’t you tell me what it says?”

 

“These aren’t my words. I shouldn’t.”

 

“So they’re important.” This isn’t a question. Julian says this as though he is absolutely certain. “Give me a hint?”

 

“Shouldn’t you ask  _him_ to tell you?” It’s a little harder to smile through this.

 

“And what if I never see  _him_  again? What if it’s just  _you_  now?” He’s bitter and frustrated.  He has every reason to be, though.  In this situation, he is the only one with no assurance that Deep Space Nine is real, or that they have the capabilities to fix everything.  But if his Garak has ceased to exist... Perhaps it’s not so terrible to translate this for him.

 

“Why don't we trade?” Garak offers.

 

Julian's tone and expression are slowly drifting toward angry and he leans away from Garak. “What does that-? What are you even suggesting?”

 

“Nothing scandalous. Just a trade of information. You tell me why you called my friendship ' _just_ ', and I'll tell you what this paper says.”

 

Julian appears to consider this for a moment. “How do I know you'll even be telling me the truth?”

 

Garak laughs softly. “You don't, I suppose, but neither do I.  Would you lie to me in order to get to this slip of paper? I should assume you would.  _But_  if you feel like trusting me, then we both learn and our situation is a bit more bearable.”  _And then you'd be as foolish and wonderful as your counterpart._

 

Julian pulls his legs up to his chest and gives the impression he's trying to take up as little space on the couch cushion as possible. He's ridiculously lanky, however, so he condenses badly. He sighs, but then answers, “Because while I'm not sure I know what I'm doing here, but I know it's not  _just_  friends.” He winces when Garak frowns a little. “I don't mean ' _just_ ', I mean... I don't know what I mean. You said you just have lunch and he and I... Not friends. Something in between friends and 'elsewhere.' Something else. Transitional.” He drops his forehead to his knees and sighs. “Why don't I just say it's evolving so it will sound even  _more_  like I'm talking about fossils?”

 

Garak smiles. “So it's as ambiguous as it looks with your toothbrush and your food in the right place, but your clothes stuck under an end table.”

 

Julian groans into his knees. “I guess. Maybe it's  _supposed_ to be ambiguous? ” He picks his head up a bit only to drop it angrily against his knees again. “Maybe I'm never going to know.”

 

To say that Julian cares that the other Garak is missing is a slight understatement.  Garak tries to imagine his Bashir upset at the personal loss rather than caught up in the curiosity of the incident and he's not sure he can.  If anyone else were missing in this Bashir's – this Julian's – life, would his reaction be the same?  Does that even matter?  Garak doesn't know every detail of this Julian, and that makes making any kind of decision on the matter of this slip of paper irresponsible and ill-informed, but there is some novelty to be had in wondering if he'll be the person  _clearing up_ some ambiguity for once.

 

“When did you say you got this note?” Garak asks.

 

“Two weeks ago?”

 

“And what did he tell you it was?”

 

Julian turns his face to look at Garak, though his head is still against his knees. “Half an idea or something.”

 

“ _Half_  of the  _beginning_  of a silly idea, right?”

 

Julian nods against his knees and looks awfully tired. “Right. That.”

 

“Then it's exactly what he said it was.” Julian picks up his head and opens his mouth, no doubt to protest Garak being unfair, but Garak offers him the note before he can say anything. “It says, ' _I love you_.'”

 

The best description of Julian's expression as he takes the note back is 'devastated' and Garak regrets not telling him the note was part of a short grocery list.  Julian simply stares at the paper in his hand and looks lost for several seconds.

 

“I've-- I've been going everywhere with 'I love you' stuck in my biology text for  _two weeks_ thinking it was 'Once upon a time'. How do I even-? ”

 

_Really? Another world, another universe, and I'm not taking in fine literature or exploring foreign cuisine; I'm sitting in a basement getting involved in a relationship that isn't even mine. Maybe we can pretend it was nothing._

 

“Perhaps our languages really are different and it's just coincidence,” Garak lies.  _There's no way it's anything else. Not unless every word on every package, book, and sales receipt I've read has been a coincidence as well._

 

Julian still can't manage much of a sentence, and stammers on as though Garak hasn't said anything at all. “I don't – I don't know what to do with this. I should have just--”

 

Julian looks awkward, lost, tired, hungry, and a little scared. What he needs is a distraction: conversation about something else; questions about other worlds and Cardassians with scales; an attempt at some kind of technology that Garak can pretend has a chance to contact Deep Space Nine from a primitive world and time. Garak could frankly use the distraction too, because the sugary juice and the books and the toothbrush and the awful cereal not only make perfect sense here mixed in with the other him, they belong here because  _Julian_  does.

 

They could be spending hours, days, months,  _years_ together waiting for a fix, and for all their similarities, neither of them is going to be what the other one wants. When he looks at Human Garak's life, at his notes, at his  _closet,_  it's obvious that the two of them are almost the same man. And that  _almost_ seems to be key, because while Garak doesn't know much about this Julian, he knows that Julian  _cares_  about the Human Garak. And if the similarities between his Bashir and this other man's Bashir are as close as the ones between himself and Human Garak, then Bashir has the capacity to care like this too. And all Garak needed to be was  _Human_.

 

 _It won't do for us to suffer because you're not a doctor in space. Let's you get you distracted._ Garak nods toward the note in Julian's hand.  _“_ You should put that back in your book. You wouldn't want to lose your place.”


End file.
